Tales in the Aftermath
by riverunderhill
Summary: In the wreckage of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields Gimli searches for his friend. Hopelessness comes in the form of tales told over drinks around a fire. A short story of friendship.


After the battle comes the telling of tales.

The wind ceases to blow for an instant and those left standing on the field of battle feel as though their breath has left their bodies and retreated beyond the distant mountains. They are voids, suits of armor animated by sorrow and held upright by shattered spears. There is no relief only a sense of floating in a liquid left sitting for so long a thin film of grime has sealed it from the outside world.

On a knoll once grassy, now gnarled and soaked with blood stands a dwarf. He leans on the shaft of his heavy axe and rests a booted foot on a carcase. It might have been a goblin or it might have been a man, the only certainty is that it is now missing a head among other limbs. He has already wiped the blood from his weapons, his other axe has returned to the strap across his broad back.

He waits as men in the silver armour of Gondor search the fields around them for signs of the barely living. Among them are the gilded and green liveries of Rohan, the splendid plumes of their helms lie limp against the tarnished metal.

Some risk a curious glance at the dwarf in their midst, trying to glimpse his eyes somewhere between his furrowed brows and beard. They are not rewarded, the dwarf pays them no mind. The men are a considerable distance away before he moves. Descending the knoll he uses the shaft of his ax as a walking stick not out of necessity but out of habit. He takes pride in the weapons given to him by his lord father and shows them off whenever he may.

In the place of wind the air now contains the faintly audible cries of those wishing to be found. Among these, Gimli hopes, is not a voice he might easily recognize.

Someone calls out to him and he sees that the Horsemaster, Eomer is striding towards him. His gaze is troubled and as he nears Gimli notes that his features are twisted in pain. They speak a moment and Eomer reveals that his sister was found among the fallen, alive through gravely wounded. Gimli's heart sinks upon hearing this news. The Lady of Rohan had been a generous host during their stay in those Halls and, given the time, she had proved an affable companion on the long ride to Helm's Deep. She had indulged Gimli's lengthy tales of the Dwarf Lords and their Kingdoms with a generous smile and eager questions. She had laughed at his more modest jests and had even allowed a grin to break onto her icy features when he caught her overhearing a bawdy tale.

Unable to express his sorrow he grasps the arm a horse lord and wills him to know that hope remains. Hope comes in the form of Aragorn who has been gone for sometime into the city to lend his aid in the House of Healing.

Eomer looks out over the desolate fields, his eyes not resting on anything for too long. He is a seasoned warrior of many years but even he cannot bear the sight of so much destruction. He asks Gimli if the dwarf will not return with him to the city but Gimli refuses, saying that there are still things unaccounted for in the fields.

Eomer nods, too preoccupied to press further and leaves. Only later, when he is climbing a shattered staircase up to the battlements in the third level of Gondor's walls does he realize what was missing in his encounter with the dwarf.

Gimli continues to walk, taking a long turn around the hulking mass that was once an Oliphaunt; the great Southron beasts that had taken as many men to fell them as sat in the canopied frames of their saddles. He is a stout shadow amid many blackened forms. Some men who see him offer aid if needed. He thanks them gruffly but insists they tend to their own. His words are steady but his heart has started to beat faster and he is aware of its pounding against his chest. The hour grows late and of the elf there is no sign.

The sun is setting and the colour of the sky begins to match that of the ground. Black clouds gather over the peaks of Mordor, spreading their thunder like a drumbeat over the fields of battle. Such rain as they might provide would only sully this place further.

Some distance from the eastern wall of the city he finds Pippin. The Halfling's face is painted in streaks of grime and blood all melded where tears have fallen. His hand rests on a cart as he follows it towards the gates. When Gimli reaches the somber convoy he is stricken by the broken form of Merry lying wrapped in a tattered cloak, not dead but not fully living.

Pippin falls into the dwarf's embrace, their breastplates clanking dully the one against the other. Gimli holds the hobbit tightly, feels him shaking and his fear grows. Pippin raises his head from the dwarf's beard and regards him with worried, wet eyes. He asks whether Gimli will return to the city with them and whether the elf has gone there already.

Gimli pats his shoulder with feigned reassurance and shakes his head. Their agreement had been to meet in the field and he was already sure that his companion was not within . He would search a while longer and Pippin looks newly fearful. He departs with a look over his shoulder at the dwarf that holds more sorrow than Gimli can bear.

Some men remain searching the fields by torchlight, guided only by the cries of the wounded which are softer and farther between than before. Gimli calls out now. No one he meets has seen the elf and his mouth has gone dry. He would search all night if he felt anything would come of it but in the darkness all bodies melt together into an indistinguishable bog.

Irrationally he believes that he only has to turn one more corner, push over one more body and he will find something. But the bodies are endless and he is running out of corners, the last one leaving him before the city gates.

The layers of wool and leather he wears beneath his armour no longer keep him warm and reluctantly he is convinced to enter the city and find company among the men seeking reassurance in a roaring fire and what ale as can be salvaged.

He's not giving up, the men tell him, it would be impossible to find anything in that mess. He catches sight of Aragorn moving from torchlight to shadows. The ranger's shoulders are bent, his hands are the only clean part of him for he has been working to heal the wounded. Gimli thinks to ask him about the elf but does not wish to add to his cares.

Around low tables made from planks of wood laid over barrels and crates the men have gathered to feel human again. They trade stories in which the dead still drew breath and together they remember and together they mourn. Gimli stays silent, not wishing to join their talk. It might make that which he dreads is true come to pass. But slowly the words fill the cup as the frothy liquid is drained from it.

"My father would often tell me the story of a haunted wood guarded by a king so terrible that even his own people would not look upon him for more than an instant. I think now that he meant to keep me close in his halls, the way all parents do."

The men around the fires slowly stop their chatter, the last to fall silent only doing so because of the encouragement of his neighbor's sharp elbow.

"These woods," he continues as if talking to himself, "I had never seen woods as a wee lad. I could only imagine a terrible place. More cobwebs than an old cellar, he said, and more strange cries than a stable in the early spring when the animals start to rut in their pens.' He takes a long swallow of his drink and is handed another by a disembodied hand.

"A long time ago my father was lost in the woods. They'd walked for days and their food was no more than crumbs at the bottom of their packs." The men lean closer, imagining the most terrible of places such as their nans had described to them while they were held captive in their beds.

"One of their number had fallen into a river some time before and when they pulled him out he was asleep, snoring! A fat old fool, my father called him, always eating more than was required and complaining whenever he wasn't. But I'd like to know what sort of river puts people to sleep. I could never grasp the point of such things even then.

So for many days they wandered in the woods, carrying their sleeping companion and hoping for a way out of the dark. They could not even eat the squirrels when they could catch them and their leader soon decided that the effort was not worth the arrows they lost.

And then, one night, there was a light to through the trees. A light like fire and a sound like people laughing and talking. You must understand that under normal circumstances no dwarf would go near an elf-fire but they were hungry and they were tired."

Between the men the fires appear to glow brighter as the tale takes hold. They suppose they could smell wild game roasting on spits and hear the clanking of drinking glasses punctuating thrills of laughter.

"The fat old fool was awake and could not be stopped from running towards the fires. They had been told not to leave the path but they had long ago abandoned any attempt to do so. The forest was deceptive and twisted the path right out from under their weary feet. They had no choice, my father would say. It was better to chase fairy lights than to shrivel and die so far from the hills of our fathers."

Another drink is put in his waiting hand. He is warming to the tale as he has heard it so many times.

"But what do you think happened when they tried to find those fires? The blasted things would jump and dance away as coy as you like and my father and his companions grew angry. They were not in the mood for games having been chased by monstrous spiders, large as houses, and drinking nothing but old water.

And when they finally do enter the clearing the blasted thing disappears! Poof! Right out into nothing but a great burst of smoke. In the darkness the elves are laughing and the dwarves are lost and dazed. It was elves alright, no other creature could be so frivolous as to devise fires that run away from a poor, weary soul." These last remarks are emphasized by the pounding of his rapidly emptying tankard on the table. Droplets leap out of the cup and splatter across the wood, leaving foamy little puddles.

"So what do you think they did, my father would ask me? They tried again, running around the woods like fools and each time they found a clearing with a fire the blasted thing would go out and they'd be left in the dark again more lost than before.

Finally, their leader decided he'd had enough with running about and said they would sneak up on the next fire they saw instead of bursting through it like a herd of sheep. So the group crept about like mice and found another clearing and another fire.

This one was bigger than all the others and filled with more people. There was singing and there was food. And the king was there, all dressed up in flowers and glittering things most of which were dwarf-made, you know. He was a tall and gangly thing, more arm and leg than any sensible being would have need of and his eyes were shining like gems at the end of a cavern.

The leader of the dwarves stepped into the clearing and for a moment it seemed like it would not disappear. The others started to walk forward and then it all went dark. That time the elves took my father and his friends prisoner and kept them in a dungeon beneath their halls. All they wanted was a bit of food and to not be lost in the woods any longer. Who here can blame them? The elves could at any rate -"

At this he trails off as a shadow creeps into his thoughts. He stares into the foam at the bottom of his cup. His father hated the elves, he could never trust them and with that story his son had learned that same distrust. His breath hitches in his throat. Elves were not to be trusted and yet hadn't he just spent hours in the mud and shite looking for one? Like the dwarves in his father's story he felt lost and hollow despite the amount of drink in his belly. If his friend was dead then all he was doing was chasing fires that were never there to begin with.

The men around the fire shift uncomfortably, wondering if any more of the tale was forthcoming or if they can return to their drinks.

At that moment Gimli feels a weight on his shoulder and a new tankard is pushed across the table and comes to rest in front of him. At first he sees the frothing cup and then he sees the hand that proffers it. The fingers are long and pale and they grow together into an arm clad in dusty green cloth.

"You know," comes a voice faintly accented and dripping with wry humour, "that's not exactly how I remember it."

Gimli is on his feet with more agility than should have been possible for one so full of drink. The empty cup falls from his hand and he stares upwards, mouth gaping into the grinning face of Legolas. He sputters, beard quavering violently, not knowing whether to let loose a volley of insults and vulgarities that would sully the underthings of even the purest lady within a hundred miles or to shout praises to whatever god had allowed this.

"Laddie-"

All the fear leaves him in a single, gusty exhale. His friend lives and would have a lot to answer for. He leaps forward to wrap his arms around his friend but finds himself held back by a firm hand on his shoulder. Confused, he studies the elf and sees that despite his smile the sharp features of his face ware paler than usual and he holds himself stiffly to one side. A moment of searching reveals a dark stain on the elf's tunic which was partially concealed behind his cloak.

Panic seizes him anew but his before he can raise his voice he is pulled aside so that the men could return to their comforts without a scene.

"I am well," the elf says, still smiling. "Aragorn has already seen me," he answers before Gimli can even ask the question.

"You did something stupid."

"No more than you would have done."

His skepticism slowly melting Gimli looks his friend over again. He appeared whole and in an infuriatingly playful mood.

"Well I wouldn't have gotten myself stuck with something sharp, you daft scoundrel." The delivery is gruffer than he intended.

"No," replied the elf, becoming serious but saying no more.

Gimli grumbles and harrumphs into his beard as if annoyed at having to wait until the elf healed so he could kill him properly.

"I feared-"

"As did I."

There it was, admission and apology all in one. Only elves could talk like that.

"Did you say my father was gangly?"

Gimli couldn't help it. His laughter bursts forth so loudly that every man around the fires jumps out of his seat. He laughs like a dwarf possessed by madness and it was a while before he regains composure. When he does so both the elf and the dwarf are grinning widely in the flickering glow of so many fires.

"It's an accurate description."

"Don't ever tell him I agreed with you"

"Don't ever give me the chance."

"Done."

They return to the circle of drinkers. Gimli reclaims his cup and drinks deeply. He notes out of the corner of his eye that the elf winces as he sits down on a low crate. He would mend and then the dwarf resolves to have no mercy in teasing him about it.

There is time enough for that.


End file.
